Seclusion
by AMarguerite
Summary: Cosette ruminates on isloation and cuts roses in the moonlight. Another installment on my quest, as Cosette is rarely written about in a positive fashion.


_Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo, or in any way, own the characters. I do not intend to make money, slander the characters, make Victor Hugo roll in his grave, etc._

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Cosette was out cutting roses. It was late, the stars having already appeared in their glittering orbits, and the moon's great eye half closed in a state between somnolence and the scattered, distracted thoughts of one daydreaming.

Yet, Cosette was out cutting roses. Toussaint had blinked in confusion and stammered something incomprehensible when Cosette had first informed her of the plan, and Papa had merely smiled at the merry little laugh that had accompanied it. Cosette prattled on, nearly bubbling with enthusiasm for her project, about roses in moonlight, and fairy stories, and arranging the flowers prettily, and how she'd make two baskets, one for her dear Papa's house which was not really a suitable house, and one for the dining room. Then Papa had reminded her that the day after next, they were moving to the Rue de l'Oeust for a few weeks, and Cosette had laughed, replying, "Then it's most important that I cut them now!"

Later, Cosette felt ashamed for prattling on so. But the house was so silent and still if she didn't talk, with Toussaint content to clean without words, and Papa's calm and quiet reserve whenever he did muster the courage to come into the _proper_ house.

Cosette did not much like silence. If she was outside, she loved being quiet, because she didn't have to prattle on to fill the empty air with sounds to drive off the isolation, nor practice the piano-organ to fill the vacant space with swells of music. If she was quiet, the birds sang… and she could hear _people_. Droves and droves of _people_, beyond the fence, talking and laughing and singing, and horses clopping by and wagons rolling along… Cosette would smile, and gaze at the world beyond the fence and with all the poignant, unrestrained longing of her heart, she would wish to be part of it.

At the convent, the longing had not been so acute. There were girls she could laugh with and whisper with and play with. She had friends who would run with her and try to reach the top branches of the cherry trees, in order to pluck the fruits and hang them over their ears. They would laugh and compliment each other on such natural looking jewelry, and then try and stitch the images of the cherries into the samplers when their sewing was good enough. And during prayers, when her soul unfurled before God like a sheet of silk, or opened like a rose to sunlight, she felt close to tears, yearning for something she did not know but seemed so close.

Well, she was out of the convent, now. That longing seemed almost fulfilled, as she knelt in the garden, carefully cutting blooms off her bushes, and listening to the cicadas murmuring to themselves and the crickets chirping like birds.

She pulled out the weeds straggling about her rose bushes, though she had forgotten to put gloves on, and she was getting dirt all over her skirt. She wrapped the ends of her roses in a wet towel and placed them in a basket. Then….

The bells of the cathedral rang out, an intense echoing peal. She paused, soul trembling with each bell stroke. Any moment, any second, with the closing peals, something would happen, something, anything to remove her from the horrid isolation, with only God for her companion.

On the twelfth peal, when the sound of the bell faded into the soft velvet mantle of the night sky, she still waited, soul trembling, heart beating furiously, knife in hand… yet, nothing.

The heavy fabric of the sky muted all sounds, stifled each desperate beat of Cosette's heart. She glanced at her hands, pale and slim and marred with dirt. Her skirt, which had been pink that morning, was now a sort of dusky color from the dirt she had absently scattered and smudged into it. She could see where a rip near the hem had been sewn up, from when she had accidentally stepped backward onto her skirt after giving a few sous to a beggar. There was a slight dusting of flour on her corsage, from when Toussaint had taught her to make croissants that afternoon, despite her father's mild protestation.

She raised a hand to brush off the flour before realizing with a wrinkled nose, that her hand was dirtier than her dress. She wondered at the state of her hair and noted, that her pins had come loose, and her hair was sticking to her face and neck. She pushed her hair back, before realizing that she had just smudged dirt across her cheek. She released a small sigh of frustration at her smudged appearance and returned to cutting roses, ruminating, all the while, over her dirty complexion and dress.

Perhaps that was why she was so alone. In the novels she bought when her father wasn't looking, the heroines were always well- dressed, beautiful, talented, and (above all) elegant.

Cosette wrinkled her nose at her dress and sat on her heels, resolving not to cut roses in day dresses, and, next time she helped cook, to wear an apron.

As to beauty, Cosette could but sigh. There was always that comment, from the unknown man, though she often doubted the veracity of it. It disturbed her how much beauty now meant to her, for she had always been happy being plain. But now she examined herself in the mirror doubtfully, playing with hairpins and combs in an attempt to imitate the hairstyles she saw other women wearing when she went out walking.

And as to elegance… Cosette shuttered a bit and sighed, feeling half- melancholy and half- amused. That she could be elegant seemed laughable. She liked dancing very much, but when twirling around in her bedroom, she usually ended up knocking things off shelves. She could never walk with half as much poise as any of the sixteen- year-olds at the convent, forgetting that when she had compared herself to them, she had been two years younger.

She hadn't any talents, so to speak of, either. She could sing, but was nothing exceptional. Once she had sang 'Ave Maria' during Mass and smiled at how her Papa's face glowed with pride. But that had only been once, and she had often felt very small and insignificant when the other girls sang, feeling, rather than knowing, that they were much better than she could ever hope to be. She could play the piano-organ, not brilliantly, but well- enough. She was handy with a needle, but, if forced, like so many tragic heroines, to make a living out of it, she would end up sitting in the gutters, like the beggars she and Papa gave alms to. She could cook, somewhat, though when she had tried to make croissants that afternoon, they had caught on fire. She could read, and build fantastic daydreams to perfume the air and nurture her imagination… but those served to make her longings more acute. She could cheer those in sorrow, having found the same pain of isolation in those poor souls, and seeking to banish it to the shadows. But that she had always accredited to the nuns and the father who had taught her the value of charity. She could draw, but her embroidery was much better. She could knit, but the first muffler she had made had been terribly lumpy. Her dear Papa had worn it anyway, though, in thoughts colored rosily with amusement, she had always assumed it was because it was too hideous to give to the poor. She could shop extremely well, and knew fashion like she knew her garden, but that never had seemed like much of an accomplishment. She could garden, but that didn't seem like it took much talent, either.

So here she was, inelegant, without talent, dirty, plain, with her hair tangled about her face, behind the wrought- iron of a sturdy fence. She could not have felt more isolated.

A part of her murmured, 'But why would you want to belong to the world? You belong to God.'

Cosette smiled sadly, demurely folding her hands in her lap, forgetting the roses she held. That was true. That much, at least, she knew. But, still, she knew so little, and felt uneasy and chafed because of it. There was a world she did not understand full of ideas and things and _people_ outside her gate. Everything seemed so out of reach….

But Cosette was not a person to bewail adversity for long. Though she felt deeply, she disliked dwelling in melancholy when she felt there was so much to be happy about. There was so much to fill the silent air of her household, if she could just reach it. And there was so much to glorify in the trilling melody of a lark.

Perhaps tomorrow, she would wear her printed muslin, the one with the lavender flowers on it, instead of her usual black silk, and stick a rose into her hat. Then, perhaps, the young man with the quiet demeanor and the crumpled hat who always passed by her bench would pull himself from his daydreams and smile at her. Cosette was quite sure the young man liked roses, having noted, when on the pretext of watching some sparrows playing on the alley, that he often paused to contemplate a rosebush towards the end of the avenue. Once, he had picked a fallen blossom from the ground and tucked it in his lapel, and Cosette had been very amused for the rest of the day.

Then, she thought with a melancholy smile, perhaps she would not feel quite so alone. The young man had a handsome smile as he contemplated his daydreams, and had often been seen strolling about with friends, discussing politics, history, or poetry. The learning they displayed was enchanting, alluring, and Cosette had been envious of them for a few days (before she had gone to confession) for being able to go and learn so much, to be with _people_, discussing and laughing, and talking. She thought that, by knowing them, she could be happy, because having friends always cheered Cosette.

But, Cosette realized with a small start, it wasn't just that. Whenever she was with _people_, her isolation vanished. She had as much joy giving her (much improved, knitting-wise) mufflers to the urchins who chased each other around the cobblestones as visiting a friend from the convent. And she was wonderfully happy when Papa took her on trips to visit poor families, and Cosette would have the glorious prospect of buying new clothes for them.

If she could persuade Papa to go, she would walk in the Luxembourg in her printed muslin, carrying the first decent shawl she'd knitted (or tried to knit- Toussaint ended up knitting most of it) to give to the little boy who had said he lived in an elephant. She would stick a rose in her white crepe hat, and one in Papa's jacket, and tease him to make the corners of his eyes crinkle, which meant he was _truly _happy. When she met people, she would smile, and she would be happy in the silence. Smiles always filled the air with music, like prayers did.

Much cheered by her daydreams, Cosette rose to take her basket inside, and then discovered the roses she had been holding were stuck on her skirt by their thorns. Disentangling them proved difficult, but, as Cosette thought grimly, taking herself out of any problem had never seemed very easy.


End file.
